Dying for the Past (15 page)

thirty-five

“What book, Tuck?” Angel
asked, driving across town to the Vincent House. “What's Doc talking about?”

“I don't know. Vincent told me to find Benjamin and something about a book. Maybe it's a cookbook. I don't know.”

“A cookbook?” Angel's words dripped with sarcasm. “A dead mobster comes back to haunt you over a cookbook?”

Well, it didn't sound so stupid when I said it.

We arrived at the Vincent House just as the sheriff's crime scene van pulled out. There was one remaining sheriff's deputy standing on the front veranda and no other police cruisers or officers anywhere in sight.

The deputy stopped her at the front door. “Sorry, Professor Tucker, no one goes in anymore without an escort. Captain Sutter's orders.”

“All right, I understand. Has the caterer, Petya Chernyshov, been by yet? He's supposed to meet me.”

The deputy looked over a list on a clipboard. “No, ma'am. Detective Spence was by earlier, and the crime techs just left. Everyone else left about lunch time. Sorry.”

Angel returned to the car. “Petya said he'd meet me here. He was returning two hours ago to check the clean-up.” She pulled out her cell phone and dialed. It rang several times and went to voicemail. “He's still not answering.”

“You keep trying, Angel,” I said. “I'm going inside to take a look around.”

“Okay, I'll see you later. I'm going to the office to check some work and then home. I didn't get much done yesterday with the gala, so I want to catch up today.”

“You're leaving me?”

“It's not like you have to walk home.”

“True.”

I walked past the deputy on the veranda—he, of course, never noticed me—and went in search of the delectable Sassy and her menacing companion, Vincent Calaprese.

I knew they were around when Billie Holiday's
Blue Moon
began playing in the foyer. Visiting Vincent and Sassy was not only educational, it was a great tour of swing and big band tunes, too. Oh, and the bourbon was worth tiptoeing around Vincent's wrath.

Vincent stood on the second floor landing looking down at me. He had a wide smile and smoked a cigar—a Sancho Panza if Doc knew him at all.

“Oliver, I trust you've brought me good news.”

“Ah, no, sorry, Vincent.” Bad news to a gangster wasn't the way to start a conversation. “How about a drink? We can talk.”

“Ah, yes, of course.” Vincent descended the stairs and led me into the lounge. “But, not too much. It isn't good for you.”

“What's it going to do, kill me?”

He slapped me on the back. “You have a sense of humor. Good. Now, tell me about Benjamin.”

I waited for him to pour two drinks, raised mine in customary salute, and took a long sip. “Nothing to tell, I'm afraid. I don't know who he is. Tell me more about him and about this book you want. And most important of all, tell me why you're talking to me.”

“Certainly you know by now you're unique?” He drained his glass in one gulp. “Not all of us can do what you do—work with the
living. Most are, well, not able. If we were, things would be very different. Tell me about Benjamin.”

“I told you, I have no idea who he is. I'm not fibbing either.”

Vincent poured himself another drink and leaned on the bar facing me. His face was dark and brooding—not unusual for a mean-hearted spirit I'm sure. “Do not toy with me, Oliver.”

“I'm not. But if you know where he is and how I can find him, tell me.”

Vincent stared at me. “You know, today is not so different than my day—1939, I mean. You got the good guys and the bad guys and some of the bad guys are good. You understand?”

“No.”

“Sure you do.” He refilled our glasses. “I can be a good guy, Oliver. Or I can be a real, real, bad guy—like the old days. Play your games if you must.”

“I'm not playing anything, Vincent. I don't know Benjamin.”

His eyes narrowed on me. “Here's the way things are—you bring me Benjamin and the book or I'll put the hurt on your long-legged beauty at home.”

I stood up and pushed my glass across the bar. “Don't threaten me, Vincent. And don't threaten Angel. She's not involved in this.”

“Of course she is.”

“No, she's not.” I slammed a hand on the bar and it only made him laugh. “Tell me where to find Benjamin and this book—give me something to go on—and I'll do what I can. But don't—don't ever—threaten her again.”

He laughed again, this time, letting a good belly laugh taunt me. When he was through, he leaned forward and shot a bullet-finger at me. “No,
you
listen, Oliver. You may have been a hotshot copper once, but not no more. In this world—our world—you're nothin'. You're just a smart-ass rookie who doesn't know the score.”

“How do you say, ‘screw you' in 1939?”

“See, a real wise guy.” Vincent yanked his .45 semi-automatic from beneath his jacket and jammed it into my face. “The book is mine. It is, shall we say, insurance. The book has the key to my enemies in DC. They were a bad bunch, them commie-bastards. A bad bunch. I want it back.”

“Commies? As in Russians?”

“Yeah, damn Ruskies.” He prodded me with his gun again. “And
somebody whacked me for it. I want it back before it falls into the wrong hands again. See, Oliver, times change and the date changes, but people don't change. And families get bigger and stronger. Mine and theirs, too. You gotta find the book before the wrong family gets their hands on it. I gotta have it.”

“Why? What could be so important in a seventy-five year old book?”

“Because there's more at stake than you know. Them commie-bastards are making a move nobody is gonna see coming. What they started back then is about to pay off in a big way soon. And I gotta stop it.”

“And Benjamin?”

He looked at me eye-to-eye and tucked his .45 back into his shoulder holster, patting his jacket over it. “Benjamin owes me, big time—Benjamin tried to steal my girl.”

“And you want him to pay after all these years?”

“No.” He puffed on his big Cuban. “He already paid. No, Oliver, he knows about the book. And I know all about him. Benjamin is the key to finding the book and stopping them commie-bastards.”

Holy Joe McCarthy. “You do know we won the war, right?”

“Did we? Or did things just change?”

Good point. But he missed mine. “You're talking about communists and whacking people seventy-five years ago—this is 2014. I don't see the—”

“You will. Benjamin can explain it all. Bring him, Oliver. Bring
him soon before things go too far—for them commies and for your
gal. Don't make me hurt you, Oliver. I like you. But if you fail me, I will hurt you bad.”

His eyes watched me like a hawk about to swoop down for the kill—distant, but cunning and all-seeing. Vincent Calaprese, of the New Jersey Calapreses, wasn't fooling around.

“Okay, Vincent. You win. If the commies are involved, I'm in. After all, I'm a red-blooded American. But you leave my Angel alone or I'll find the book and you'll never get it. So, how can I find Benjamin?”

He blew a cloud of Cuban smoke into my face and drowned the cigar in my drink. “His name is Benjamin Gillen Tucker.”

What? No way …

“You call him ‘Doc Gilley.'”

thirty-six

“And you're involved with
a murderer.” W. Simon Hahn—“W” for worm—stood in Angel's university office, in front of her desk, shaking his finger at her like a student caught cheating on a test. “It's been bad enough you've developed a reputation
—”

“A reputation?” Angel's voice rose in both octave and volume. “What does that mean?”

I walked in just in time for the “involved with a murderer” comment. “Angel, are you cavorting behind my back? You're not moon
lighting at the bingo games again, are you?”

“No.” She flashed me a look.

It was ill-timed and all my fault.

“See what I mean, Angela?” Professor Hahn's eyebrows raised as he followed Angel's gaze to me—where he saw and heard nothing. “There have been rumors and gossip about you for months. And I'm afraid to say it's reached the Board of Trustees, too.”

I said, “Toss this weasel out, Angel. You don't need this crap. He's talking about André and me and—”

“Oh, the board has heard, has it?” Angel walked around her desk
and confronted Professor Hahn as he took a “polite” step back from her. “What have you told them, Simon?”

“Me? What makes you think it was me?”

“Because I've heard rumors and gossip, too. You want Ernie's Department Chair and you don't like the fact I'm in it.”

He lifted a finger in the air. “Ah, yes, but only on a temporary basis
until the board decides on a permanent hire. There are several in the running.”

“Yes, perhaps. But we both know it's down to you and me.” Angel
examined him with x-ray eyes. “What did you tell them?”

“I told them nothing. However, I do understand they have heard you have been observed talking to yourself repeatedly. They also heard about you taking your lunches alone in your office and having lively conversations—with no one. And—”

“They heard or you told them?”

This was my fault. “Angel, it's because of me. I won't come to the campus anymore, promise. I'll hang with Bear and ruin his career instead.”

Angel looked down and returned to her chair behind her desk. “Did you ever consider I am still grieving? I do talk to myself—to my husband, too, sometimes. It's normal and its therapeutic. Simon, you must understand?”

“Yes, yes, of course I do.” Simon's mouth said the words but his beady little eyes were lying. “It's the board, Angela. And this position is too important. Perhaps you should take some time off.”

“I am fine, Simon. The job isn't a problem. My life is getting back to normal and the department is in fine shape.” Angel sat down. “But if you have other opinions, I'd be interested to hear them.”

He had one and it was a spear to her back. “Your gala was a disaster. You lost a quarter-million dollars in donations. And your friend the Mafia Don was present. And the murder! What do you think the board will say?”

As serious as Professor Hahn was, I couldn't help but laugh. “Okay, Angel. Turn on your desk lamp and let me juice up a little. I'm going to introduce myself to him. He deserves it. Quick.”

“No,” she said, throwing another look at me. Then, when he followed her eyes, she looked over at him and let a thin, sarcastic smile escape. “What's the matter, Simon, you think my husband is here? If he is, he's upset with you for stirring up trouble.”

“Why, no.” He looked to his right at the corner of desk, then looked to his left. “Of course not.”

I blew in his ear and flicked his lobe, making him grab it as he tensed to pucker-factor nine.

His voice cracked when he said, “But the board—”

“No, Simon, the board will understand. There's some cash still missing but I'm not concerned. The majority of the donations were checks. The guests—I've spoken to all of them—are more than generous and understanding. They have all committed to replacing them.”

“I see. And what of the Mafia—”

Angel laughed—I would have slugged him, but she always was the reasonable one of the family. “Nicholas Bartalotta has contributed a great deal to this university. He has granted the university annual scholarship funding and provided numerous jobs for student work programs.”

Professor Hahn straightened and folded his arms. “Oh? I did not know. You should have informed me—”

“It's in the minutes of the last staff meeting—you weren't there. In fact, you've missed the last several.” Angel leaned back in her
chair and watched the redness tie-dye his face. “Perhaps you should
go to the board with your complaints about Nicholas. They'll be inter
ested to speak with you. After all, I had lunch with Nicholas and the Dean earlier this week to discuss his job initiatives and financial contributions. And he has insisted on covering the missing cash from the theft should the police not recover it.”

“I see.” Professor Hahn looked down and contemplated her
desk clock. Then he lifted his chin up and took another swing. “And
the complaints? The murder?”

I said, “He just won't stop, will he?”

“You cannot think I had anything to do with all this? And I assure you, neither did André Cartier. His credentials are above reproach.”

“If they were, he wouldn't have been arrested.”

Angel's face darkened and her lips lost their color. “What do you want, Simon?”

“Let me be clear.” He cleared his throat and looked at her eye-to-eye. “I've received complaints on your performance at the gala. Several of them—the things people saw are disturbing.” He folded his arms with a thin, “gotcha” smile. “I have no choice but to—”

“Good,” she said, taking her cell phone from her purse. “I'll call Detective Braddock. You can provide the names and information to him. No one came forward at the crime scene, and since they confided in you, he'll want to speak with them again—he'll be sure to mention you provided their names.”

Professor Hahn's smile evaporated and I could hear his ass snap
ping closed like a clam under attack. “What? No. They spoke to me in confidence. I cannot disclose their information.”

I said, “Do you know what obstruction of justice is, asshole?”

Angel repeated me word-for-word, adding, “And falsifying information is, too. Let's ask Detective Braddock—”

“No, no, wait.” He held up his hands in surrender. “W” was for “withdraw.” “Perhaps I've exaggerated a bit. I'm upset. Please, Angela, forgive me. I'm—”

“What?” she demanded. “What is it, Simon? You're being very difficult.”

His face dropped. “I'm worried about you. Really I am. I know you're grieving for Oliver.”

“My friends call me Tuck,” I said, reaching down and taking hold of Angel's cell phone for a little electric pick-me-up. “You can call me Detective Tucker. Or sir. Yeah, I like sir.”

Angel smiled.

“Angela, I am worried for your health. You should take some time
off and leave the department to me for a short time. I'm sure the board can postpone the decision a few months. Take the time you need and when you're ready—”

“No need for me to take time off. I am ready, Simon. I'm as ready
as I can be.” She waved him toward her office door. “And if you don't mind, I have work to catch up on.”

He tried to smile but only formed a feeble-looking grin. Maybe it was his best work. “All right, Angela. But you will call with any news on the gala or if you just want to talk, right?”

“Of course I will, Simon.”

“When she's ice skating in hell.” I couldn't resist.

W. Simon Hahn went the door and hesitated, looking like he was about to return for more ass-whooping. I beat him there and grabbed hold of the door handle. I was still tingling from Angel's cell phone and it gave me a little “oomph.” As he tried to open the door, I held it tight. He couldn't budge it.

He tried it again. Nothing.

When he stepped aside and looked at Angel, I swung the door open. It startled him and he jumped. But as he reached for it again, I slammed it closed and flicked his ear.

“There, asshole, explain that to the board.”

He wouldn't, of course, because he might have to explain the stain I swear formed in his pants when he left.

“W” was for wussy-boy.